


Would You Mind

by AmayaNoAkatsuki



Category: Naruto
Genre: BAMF Haruno Sakura, Businessman Madara, Desk Sex, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Lap Dances, Madara needs to pay attention to his goddamn wife, Office Sex, Pole Dancing, Sakura just wants some attention, Shameless Smut, She Put A Pole in His Office, She knows what she wants, Smut, Strip Tease, he wasn't ready, hell yeah
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:07:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25124410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmayaNoAkatsuki/pseuds/AmayaNoAkatsuki
Summary: Cause' I'm gonna bathe you, play with you, rub you, caress you, tell you how much I've missed you. [Sakura just wants a little bit of her husband's attention, every now and then.]In which Sakura has no choice but to employ drastic measures.
Relationships: Haruno Sakura/Uchiha Madara
Comments: 29
Kudos: 143





	Would You Mind

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Banoffee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Banoffee/gifts).



> Hello everyone! Here's yet another oneshot that I've been working on! It's my first official MadaSaku and I'm so happy with how it came out. I hope you guys love it!
> 
> The title is based off of the song Would You Mind by Janet Jackson, and I definitely recommend that you listen to the song as you read!

* * *

This story is dedicated to

**_Anciem/Banoffee_ **

Requested by **_Anonymous._**

* * *

**Would You Mind**

* * *

It's late into the evening when Madara finally gets home.

The sun had sunk hours ago, giving way to the velvety dark of night that swallowed the glow of the amber streetlights. He hurts everywhere, worn down from yet another long day of an even longer week, and all he wants to do is snip away the tie from his neck and slide into bed, but Hashirama's voice in his ear just won't give him that little bit of peace.

The click of the deadbolt sliding out of place is a loud and welcome sound, and as Madara pushes the side of his Oxford against the door, he instantly feels the tension melting from his stiff shoulders and winding down his spine. He hums affirmatively in response to Hashirama's question— _"And you're sure your nephew can handle taking the lead in tomorrow's presentation?"_ _—_ and swallows the soft _"Tadaima,"_ that lingers on his tongue before it slips out.

The lights are off and the living room is silent, telltale signs that his wife is already in bed, and the overly familiar greeting is a bitter one that makes guilt nibble at the back of Madara's neck. He hasn't seen much of her lately, not since the merger between his company and the Hyuuga's, with the extent of their interaction being a kiss on his way out and a few texts throughout the day, so it would be a bold-faced lie if he said he didn't miss her. The only upside to his new, hectic schedule, is that he could wake up to her entangled with him every morning, holding him to her so tightly, it would take several minutes of gradual shifting for him to get free.

And he _loves_ it.

Toeing his shoes off, his left hand comes to tug on the knot of his tie, loosening it enough to slide midway to his chest, then he pinches his phone against his shoulder so he can unravel the button at the nape of his collar. On autopilot, Madara quietly ambles across the living room, now fumbling with the buttons of his sleeves in an attempt at getting a little more comfortable. "Hashirama, in all the years that we've been friends," Madara murmurs into the phone, "I've never known you to be so anxious over a board meeting."

_"I don't get anxious. Tobirama does that for me."_

Madara snorts at that, but doesn't bother commenting on his friend's nerves, instead opting to busy himself with folding the sleeves of his shirt up his arms. His body screams at him, demanding he cut the conversation short so he could slink into the sheets beside his beloved and pull her close, enjoy a few extra hours of sleep with her against his chest, but Hashirama's anxious clucking is a little more insistent, so he rubs his palms against his eyes in an attempt at wiping away his fatigue.

But when he looks up, a sliver of light is splayed across the hallway, much to his surprise.

He half-listens as Hashirama continues on about his concerns over tomorrow's meeting, more interested in why his early bird of a wife is awake so late. He makes his way down the otherwise dark hallway, ears straining to catch any hint as to what Sakura may have been up to and interest piquing even further when he realizes the lights are coming from his study and not their bedroom.

His brows furrow and his head tilts, and then—it sounds like _rainfall_ , with a thunderous bass that makes his heart palpate in concert and a metallic tapping sound that reverberates sensually in his eardrums. His stomach flutters with the beat, chased by a pleasant, adrenalized chill that seeps into his spine and the bassline growls at him, _commanding_ him to come hither; and when he opens the door to his home office, he's stunned stupid at the sight of his wife.

She's sitting atop his desk, her slender, moonlit legs crossed at the knee and a crystalline glass of caramel colored brandy idly swirling in her left hand _._ She's beautiful, as always, with her long, dusty rose hair drawn over her left shoulder in loose curls and mossy eyes alight with fiery intent, and the way she's peering at him, as if she wants to _devour_ him, makes his chest tighten in anticipation.

_"Okaeri."_

There's an inflection in her voice, a husky undertone that alludes to things far from innocent, and for a moment, he can't _breathe._

Her irises glitter with barbed innuendos as she elegantly rises to her feet, her right hand coming to adjust the white top that clings desperately to her curves, then moving down to skim the edge of the _tiny_ black shorts wrapped around her hips. Her hips sway in time with the music, her stilettos striking the hardwood and her free hand now moving to dishevel her rosy tresses and his mouth is dry because—oh _fuck,_ she's gorgeous.

When she finally comes to stand before him, Sakura cants her head to the side and lifts her chin with a challenging glint in her eye; she takes a slow, deliberate sip of the liquor in her hand, making a show out of how pleased she is with its sharp taste with a soft moan.

_"Madara? Are you there?"_

He hears Hashirama's voice in his ear, but he's so far away that Madara hardly notices, too intoxicated by the way the pad of her finger draws along her lower lip. And when that finger slides beyond her rogue lips, Madara _isn't ready._

A lusty, singular chuckle from his lover pulls him back to earth, and Madara has to clear his throat before he hastily replies, "I have to go."

_"What? Is everything—"_

Sakura tugs the phone from Madara's hand with a kittenish smirk, in exchange for the drink in her hand, and _purrs_ into the receiver, "Good night, Hashirama."

* * *

**Would You Mind**

* * *

There's many things Madara loves about his wife.

Before he met her, his life was a complicated array of blues and blacks that tangled into his hair, yanking him this way and that. But when they met, seven years ago at the jazz-humming cafe down the street, those dark hues morphed, bleached by the sun in her eyes and re-dyed in reds and greens and _pinks_.

He calls himself as a lucky man, would brag and preen to anyone he can, show her off every chance he gets, because she's gorgeous and stunning and _brilliant_ _—_ both physically and mentally. She _built_ a children's mental health clinic _—demanded_ it, really _—_ and she runs that building with an iron fist and a bleeding heart. She looks tantalizing in just about anything, whether it be the mile long, scarlet gown she wears to charity events, or the baggy thank top and sweats she sleeps in, and she has this smile that sends his mind into an uncontrolled, captivated spiral.

Everything about her is confidence and control and _clear_. She knows what she wants, when she wants it, and right now, she wants his attention.

And _fuck_ does that make him _hard._

She's circling the pole stationed in the center of his study now, eyes aglow with carnal intent, ravaging him without touch or words and he wants to _laugh_ because that pole _definitely_ wasn't here when he left this morning. He watches, leaning back in his seat, as she snakes down with her back against the pole, her hips rocking playfully and arms floating above her head _—_ _Baby, would you mind touching me? Ever so slowly?_

She balances on the heels of her stilettos, crouched down with a hand feathering against her cheek, fingers brushing against her curved-up lips and tongue grazing impishly against her fingers. She shimmies her shoulders and twists her hips, her knees spreading wide, giving him a quick glimpse of the scant fabric between her thighs _—_ _You're making me_ quiver _—_ before smoothly dipping her shoulders forward so she's on her hands and knees.

Madara sips at his drink, greedily, trying to savor the caramel that melts against his tongue as she slides down onto the hardwood. The crisp, apple notes rush him all at once, amplified by the vanilla of her skin and the sugar in her smile, and he wants nothing more than to sink his teeth into her neck, wrap his arms around her and inhale the cinnamon on her breath. But he knows better, so he shifts into his seat with an appraising exhale as her body curves in a way that reveals the curves of her rear over her shoulders.

She sits back up, rosy locks accentuating the movement with a flair of drama, and grips the pole above her head _—Baby, would you mind undressing me?_ _—_ then maneuvers to give him a good look at her from the side. She rolls her hips and tangles her fingers into her hair, rocking in a way that makes Madara's thighs _twitch,_ because he remembers _exactly_ how that particular movement feels when he's deep inside her. Her nails slide beneath the edge of her shorts, where she hitches them high enough up her thighs to reveal the straps that cinch their width, and gives an extra shake with a wolfish, tooth-bitten smile.

Her back curves, her heels point and then she curls back into a handstand that he vaguely recalls being called a _double stag,_ and for a moment, she's frozen. She moves slowly, smoothly, adjusting her grip on the pole and spreading her legs until she's in a full split and Madara can't help but appreciate the sheer _elegance_ in her movements. Then, as the first verse of the song dribbles along _—You're making me feel sexy, while in the moment_ _—_ her back leg swings over to complete her handspring.

Sakura straightens abruptly, drawing Madara's attention to the jounce of her clothed chest, then rounds the pole with a twirl so her back is to him _—_ _Cause' I'm gonna bathe you, play with you, rub you, caress you, tell you how much I miss you_ _._

She bends forward at the hips, giving him a tasteful view of what's to come and playfully caressing the depression hidden beneath her clothes; her hands plant on the hardwood and her feet slide further and further apart whilst her chest presses down until she's splayed across the ground, _just the way he likes her_. Twisting her hips, Sakura faces him again, tugging at her shirt to tease a sliver of black lace along her belly, and that quick glimpse makes Madara's knees spread and breath stutter. He keeps his caliginous gaze leveled with hers as she hooks a leg around the front of the pole, watches as she climbs it and twists in ways that give him the most incredible views of her.

He has never been so thankful for the unnecessarily large mirror Hashirama gave him (a housewarming gift from two years ago, he recalls), because it spans across the entire wall, giving him the perfect view of his wife's sultry expressions, even when she's turned away from him.

She grips the pole with her thighs, into the pose of a ballerina in a music box, then transitions by swinging her leg up so she's hanging upside down by the ankle. Her top follows gravity, pooling against her neck so she curves her back and pulls it off, letting it fall to the floor in a heap, leaving her in floral lace that hardly does much to hide the hardening peaks of her breasts. She gives him a moment to ogle, because she's kind like that, before she grips the pole beneath her and swings her leg down, dropping into a split that makes Madara's hand rub against his tenting pants.

And when she struts towards him with an exaggerated, cat-like sway that makes her breasts bounce, her shoulders back and earthy eyes half-lidded, the frayed threads of his control begin to _snap_. The atmosphere that surrounds them is thick with arousal and romance, darkening the already dimmed lights in a way that made his lover _glow,_ as if she were the headliner of a sold-out show.

Sakura circles him, much like a lioness circles her prey, and seeing the sharpness in her reflection's stare prompts Madara to take another long, gluttonous sip of his cocktail. Her movements are fluid, dangerous when paired with that little grin of hers _—I just wanna kiss you, suck you, taste you, ride you, feel you, make you come too_ _—_ and with each swaying step, she tugs the edge of her shorts down until the rest of the lacy lingerie is revealed to his blatantly hungry perusal _._

It's all bold straps and delicate lace and _he loves it._ Its a one piece that looks like two, with near see-through boyshorts that her cheeks fill out and plenty of straps at the waist and neck for him to grab onto. The cut of the lace actually reminds him of the cathedral they married in, for some reason, which only makes him love it even more.

The lyrics paint a masterpiece behind his eyelids as he imagines their meaning _—_ imagines his wife _riding him_ with her head canted back and her breaths shattered by her heady moans, her curled locks wrapped around his knuckles. The image makes his hips rise and the hand against his cock _grips_.

He's already so hard, he can feel his member _throb_ and they haven't even done _anything_.

Sakura's knuckles trace his shoulders, brushing his hair away from his neck as she stands behind him. He stares ahead at her reflection despite the urge to turn to her and pull her into him for a lip-bruising kiss, and much to his amusement, Sakura's reflection is peering right back at him. She leans forward, hands smoothing down his chest and her lips gently taking hold of his ear as she whispers in time with the music, _"I want to make you come."_

And he _shivers._

Sakura moves to stand before him now, looking as smug as the cat that stole a bowl of cream, to the point that Madara can imagine a slender tail lashing and curling behind her. She reaches for him, raking her nails through his hair, against his scalp just the way he likes, then she _tugs_ , forcing his nose against her abdomen _._ Taking cues from the lyrics _—_ _Baby, would you mind kissing me? All over my body?_ _—_ Madara presses his lips against her waist, dips his tongue into her navel, _nibbles_ her side just above the lace while his fingers dip into the lingerie draped around her hips, desperate to feel every bit of her. He wants to move lower, to paint violets against her hips and suck on her peach because it's _right_ _there_ , but she has other plans, it seems.

 _You missed a_ _spot_ —Her hands travels over her chest and below her navel, down her hips, her thighs; and then with her lower lip pulled between her teeth, Sakura swings a leg over Madara's, simultaneously pushing aside the strip of lace that stretches between her legs _—there._

Madara groans aloud at the quick, taunting sight of her heat, and _fuck_ , does he want to _rip_ that pretty bit of ribbon apart when he _feels_ Sakura's fingers smooth along the length of her slit. But he resists, tightening his fingers around his glass, because he knows how to appreciate a well wrapped gift. Her body jerks as she presses against her clit, making him twitch along in instinct, then she's arching back in his lap. He splays his large hand against her back, holding her close and bearing purchase so he can grind his hips against her.

Her back rests against his knees and an ankle settles on his shoulder, giving Madara a front row seat to what _exactly_ she's up to.

She's so, _so_ wet, he can _hear_ the movements of her fingers around her clit, of her digits disappearing into her, and because he's a good husband, Madara pins her lingerie out of the way _—_ mindful of the way her breath shatters when his thumb fleetingly presses against her glistening pearl. With her other hand now available, Sakura uses it to tease the cup of her bra, allowing just a sliver of dusty rose to peek out against her otherwise milky skin and palming her perky mounds with a roughness that doesn't even come _close_ to what he can give. Still, Madara encourages her little show in the form of his thumb sliding along her folds and his lips on her calf, and drinks in the view just as greedily as he drinks his bourbon.

And oh _God_ his body _burns_ with his excitement. His blood boils. His chest tightens. He wants her so, _so_ bad, in this chair, on his desk, against the bookshelf _—_ it's driving him _wild_.

There's only so much he can tolerate before he _snaps._

Apparently, she notices, because her hand leaves the crevice between her legs and she sits up; and before Madara can comprehend what's going on, Sakura's slick fingers trace the edge of his glass, glazing the rim with a smear of her arousal. And seeing just how wet she is _for him_ makes a debauched growl tear from his throat.

There's no hesitation when he brings the glass to his lips _—_ _Baby, would you mind tasting me?_ _—_ nor does Madara break the aroused trance that ensnared the two of them. His tongue darts out to taste what she's gifted him, and her honeyed essence is so strong and pairs so well with his bourbon, that Madara thinks he can never have it any other way now.

She's _ruined_ that for him.

Fueled by the unfiltered want that burnishes within his belly, Madara abandons his drink on the adjacent table in favor of snaking his arms around the incurve of his wife's waist. He pulls her close, rutting his hips up against hers so roughly, she has to grip his shoulders for purchase.

 _"Sakura,"_ He moans into her neck, teeth grazing her pulse in warning and nails digging into the curve of her ass, but she isn't concerned. She cradles his jaw in her hands, slowly drumming each finger against the sides of his skull, then shifts in his lap. She rocks her hips against his, putting extra effort in aligning the tip of his throbbing member with her entrance, then guides his face to her chest.

Madara's breath comes out as thick hums as he lavishes her skin with kisses. He pushes at the cups of her bodysuit with his nose, slides away the straps at her shoulders, exposing a stiff nipple and excitedly takes the bud between his teeth. He suckles and nibbles and _bruises_ her for as long as the chorus drawls _—I just wanna touch you, tease you, lick you, please you, love you, make love to you_ _—_ until she pulls him back by the hair. He licks his lips, nowhere near satisfied with his treat as she is, but his annoyance quickly vanishes when he feels Sakura's lips at the underside of his jaw.

_"Are you ready?"_

His grasp loosens and a grunt leaves his lips at the reprimanding _yank_ she gives his his hair, allowing the rosette to snake down his body. She drags her hands down his thighs as she comes to nestle between his knees, and her position makes Madara's stomach undulate in anticipation. She's sure in what she wants, proving so by deftly undoing the buckle of his belt and placing a taunting kiss to the thick mound just below it. She rolls her body in concert with the beat's metallic tapping, flutters her lashes as she peers up at him. Once his slacks are undone, she leans forward, purposely pushing her breasts against his dressed manhood.

Ever the tease, Sakura slips the tips of her fingers below the waistband of Madara's drawers, deep enough to feel the trail of curls that led to his girth but not quite _touching_. Her touch is so feathery, it tickles, making his muscles contract, and she knows this as she grins at him. She caresses his hips with her proximal knuckles, slowly sliding his underwear down but just as the head of his cock stands out, she pins it back down with his waistband.

 _"Oh fuck Sakura,"_ Madara growls, biting into his thumb as he rubs at his face. He loves her. He loves her so much, even when she tortures him like this, even when he wants to forgo the drawn out foreplay and just _fuck her_ into the ground, and on a normal day, Sakura would have been all for it.

But today _—I just wanna kiss you, suck you, taste you, ride you, make you come too_ _—_ isn't a normal day.

Sakura preens at the agonized way her husband says her name, rewarding him by drawing her tongue against his weeping slit. He shudders and bucks his hips in response, combing his fingers through her hair to convey his firm approval, even as she moves away from his member. She fiddles with the lowest button of his top for just a moment, before she flashes him an impish grin and _tears_ the ends of his shirt apart. There's a frigidness that comes with the abrupt freedom from his shirt, but its so warm that the windows along the wall are fogging up, so it hardly registers in Madara's mind.

He should be upset about his ruined shirt, because its expensive and that shade of red is Sakura's favorite, but when she ravages his torso with her lips, her tongue, her teeth, _he doesn't mind._ His wife needs him right now, and who was he to deny her that?

Manicured nails carve lightly into his chest, applying pressure over the yellowing splotches from their last romp well over a week ago; then grazes his nipple with her thumb, taunts the other with her tongue, types new romances into his shoulder.

_I just wanna touch you, tease you, lick you, please you, love you, hold you, make love to you._

Madara writhes in his seat as he feels the embers of his arousal flare, catching fire like a fallen oil lamp. Pleasure thrums through his veins, smoldering beneath his skin with her every touch, tightening the muscles in his lower back and abdomen, and he can't do a _thing_ to appease it because this is _her_ moment.

At Sakura's encouraging nudge, Madara lifts his hips and helps to tug his slacks and underwear down, finally, _finally_ , letting his arousal bounce against his navel. Then, he feels her fingers surrounding him. With his head canted back, Madara leans back into his chair with a loud, indulgent moan that brews from his stomach as she clenches him.

The pace she strokes him with is just as agonizing as the rest of her performance, if not slightly faster. Madara takes that as a sign that she's beginning to toe the edge of her resolve, so he experimentally fingers the strap that cuts through the valley of her breasts, following it to the strap around her neck when she rises on her knees, using it to coax her closer. Sakura smirks with a huffed chuckle but follows her lover's wordless demand, gazing up at him with lusty eyes as she opens her mouth for him.

She starts at the base of his cock.

Her tongue skims the thick vein along the underside of his length in one long, continuous movement that steals all the breath from Madara's lungs. She grips the base of him with one hand, gently smoothing over the skin of his balls with the thumb of her other, then traces the seam between them with a kittenish lick that makes the Uchiha jerk. His lashes fall shut, he murmurs a pleased, _"Oh fuck yes,"_ and takes hold of the back of her neck when she finally takes him into her mouth.

He can hardly hear the music anymore, his ears are ringing so loud. And again, he doesn't mind, not as long as his wife is there to act out the lyrics _—_ _And I'm gonna kiss you, suck you, taste you, ride you, feel you deep inside me, ooh._

A hiss slips from between his teeth as Sakura's tongue spells out her name along the underside of his manhood. His hips snap when she tastes the overly-sensitive seam between his balls. His body and breath _quivers_ when her thumbs massage the crease of his thighs and _—_ Madara curses aloud, holding Sakura still with a hand fisted in her hair and thrusting wildly into her mouth as he chases the edge of his orgasm. Everything _burns_ like a wildfire in the summer or a sip of thousand-dollar bourbon, but its a wonderful feeling that courses down his throat, his chest, his navel, in feral whirlpools that stretch apart with each spin.

He doesn't stop immediately, even as the raging waves of his orgasm crash and spills down Sakura's throat; but she swallows every bit of him with a pleased hum, sending electrical vibrations up his spine as he finally pulls out of her. She looks as smug as ever, Madara notes as he falls back into his seat. He takes a quick, edacious swig of his liquor while one hand intertwines with Sakura's, leading her back down onto his lap. She settles down on him with her back to his chest, basking in the afterglow of her husband's orgasm and shivering in pleasure at the sight their reflection makes. Lifting her hips playfully, Sakura rolls into his lap and purrs his name, "Madara~"

Orphaning his now empty glass, Madara glides his palms up and down her spine, before reaching around her to take her breasts by the handful. He nibbles at the back of her neck affectionately, "Darling?"

Sakura moans at just how deliciously her nickname tastes on his tongue and twists in his lap to claim his lips. She jolts, mewling excitedly as his fingers push aside the soaked lace to pinch at the bundle of nerves above her folds. She licks her lips, trying to say something else but finds her vocal cords knotted when the engorged head of his cock teases her entrance. Behind her, Madara grips her thighs and pulls her closer to him, grinding against her in time with the background instrumental. He chuckles and says against her lips, "Darling?"

He feels her smile, and then she's sinking down onto him. _"Fuck me."_

Madara's eyes _flash_ at the command. He grips her hips tightly, and _does just that._

Sakura controls the rhythm, rocking and oscillating in ways that make him slam into her exactly where she needs him, while Madara takes charge of how hard he takes her. Its almost painful, because at this angle, he's so deeply rooted within her that she can feel him in her stomach, but it's nothing she isn't used to.

She's so tight even after all these years with him, always _dripping_ when he plunges into her, muscles gripping him but also pushing back at him, and _fuck_ does he _love_ his wife. He loves the way she smells, like a watermelon-sour; he loves the way she sounds, when her words spill out into incoherent moans interwoven with his name; he loves the way she _feels, tastes, touches._ He loves it all. Glancing up at the ridiculous mirror, Madara takes the time to memorize every inch of her, from the pattern of her lace, to the red marks against her waist _—_ the tousled hair of a dangerous woman _—_ then spreads her legs further with his knees so he can see exactly where they've become one _._

"You missed me, Darling?" He breathed into her hair. He cupped her breasts, squeezing them once, before roughly yanking the cups of her bodysuit down, exposing her to him. He pinched her nipples, made her twist around so he could claim one with his mouth, waiting patiently for an answer.

"I did," She replies, leaning back into him. His tongue flicks at her hardened bud, so she threads her fingers into his hair, holding on as if it was the only thing keeping her rooted to the earth. "I missed you so much."

He circles her clit in response, rubbing it almost _too_ roughly, but Sakura writhes and moans and _tightens_ and _—_ Madara slides out of her on his last thrust with an abrupt exhale, making his lover whine. He ignores her complaints, urging her to stand with a hand to her lower back, and as soon as she does, Madara scoops her up into his arms and makes his way to his desk.

He lays her back onto its face, grunting as Sakura pushes his laptop and the once-organized folders aside, then recaptures her lips with his as he sheathes himself within her again. Her breathing stutters at the abrupt, but welcome, intrusion, morphing into a rich moan when Madara lifts her leg. He peppers it with kisses, starting from her ankle to the inside of her knee, then lets it rest on his shoulder, allowing him to stroke so deeply into her, that she _wails_ and jerks and _writhes_ beneath him. When he has her spread so wide like this, he can kiss her, grind his pelvis against her, _watch_ her juices glitter against his cock with each and every thrust into her heat, and every little move she makes reverberates through him.

His desk shakes with how hard he's going, more that likely leaving marks in the hardwood but Madara can't find it in himself to care. "Madara," She cries out, reaching out for him. He shrugs out of his shirt and lets it pool to the floor, caring less about its new wrinkles and more about how _good_ it feels to feel his wife's skin against his. He lays over her as best as he can considering their position, groaning as her nails rake across his back.

The misty waves of his pleasure begin to rage, lashing out at the cliffs he's balancing on, taunting him. He murmurs into her ear _—"Come for me, Sakura."_ _—_ over and over again, playing with her clit once again, pounding into her harder and harder until she's given up on the idea of sitting up. Sakura tightens around him, pulsing in a way that spells out her impending orgasm and oh _fuck_ it feels _amazing._

Then all at once her body stiffens.

Her muscles tense, contract, loosen; he can feel her body ripple against his as she leaps from the edge, and he follows her with a guttural snarl with desperate thrusts that make her loud, drawn out moan _shatter._

A few moments pass, during which her leg begins to tremble so Madara lowers it, positioning her in a way where her back is flat but her hips are on its side. The smile Sakura wears is one that belongs to a woman _well fucked_ , and paired with the bruised nipples that spill from her outfit and the passion that drips onto his desk, _she's a god damn vision._ Once she's regained her breath, Sakura gazes up at him with bright, glossy eyes and a mischievous, tooth-bitten smile that sends chills clawing at his spine.

"I missed you," Sakura reiterates with a glowing blush across her cheeks. She bites at her knuckles, hiding her smile with her hand rather lamely.

Madara leans down to press a tired kiss to her lips, one hand pushing down on her thighs, and slowly eases back into her with playfully small thrusts. He pulls away, leading light, open-mouthed kisses down her neck as his movements grow faster, and replies, "I missed you, too."

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note
> 
> Alrighty! There you go, guys. The first of many commissions, and the first of many Madara x Sakura fics. I hope you all enjoyed reading it just as much as I enjoyed writing it. If you have a request for a commission you'd like me to do, let me know and I'll see what I can do!
> 
> As always, thanks for being awesome. And stay safe!
> 
> ~Amaya


End file.
